Frankie and Angel
by Old School Fan
Summary: Bruiser Brody/Ric Flair. In 1988 the wrestling world lost one of its great legends when Bruiser Brody was killed in Puerto Rico. What kind of man was he? A gentle giant or a hulking bully? A snapshot of Bruiser Brody's life shortly before he died as told by someone who loved him. Mentions of Carlos Colon, David Von Erich, Jose Gonzales, & Stan Hansen
1. Chapter 1

Not many people know this, but Frankie and I used to share an apartment. It was a simple, one bedroom flat that sat atop a used bookstore. I would have preferred something a bit more extravagant, but Frankie loved it. Where I saw a dump, he saw potential. "We can fix it up real nice," he said, "and besides it has that back entrance, real private."

Privacy was real important to Frankie.

"I have to think about it," I sighed. It wasn't just the apartment that felt wrong. It was this whole damn situation. I loved Frankie and he loved me, I was sure of it because he told me often enough and showed me in so many ways. Still, I hated all of the sneaking around we did and I hated feeling as if our love was something dirty.

"What's there to think about? It's perfect. The rent is reasonable and it's not like we're going to actually be living here, not really."

After some coaxing from Frankie, I finally agreed and we went about fixing up our love nest. We bought new furniture, various pieces of decor, and large area rugs to put on the hardwood floors. We chose warm, vibrant colors to brighten up the place. I had to admit that when we were through, it wasn't half bad.

We rented from an old Jewish man who asked no questions. Every once in a while, I ran into Mr Goldstein while I was coming or going, and he was always cordial to me. But Frankie, he adored. Whenever we stayed at the apartment, Frankie would go down to the store to engage the old man in conversation. He usually returned to the apartment with several books. Now Frankie wasn't much of a spender, but a deal on books was something he couldn't pass up. Reading had been one of his many passions.

And of course there was the wrestling business. When it came to wrestling, there was nothing Frankie couldn't do. He was a top performer, known by diehard fans throughout the world. He was a booker, a promoter, and he knew all there was to know about running production equipment. He used to produce those World Class tv shows for Fritz Von Erich back when they were popular.

Frankie was, in a word, brilliant; and I have no doubt that he would have given Vince McMahon a run for his money if he hadn't up and died on me. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Now, where was I? Ah yes, the apartment.

That apartment was our little hideaway when we wanted to flee from the world and get lost in each other. We both had our own lives, our own families. We had separate schedules that involved quite a bit of travel, but once, sometimes twice a month we would get together at the apartment. That place housed so many memories for me, the good and the bad. I remember standing in the doorway of our bedroom one night, watching Frankie pore over his paperwork, his grizzled features set in concentration. His hair, a mass of long, unruly black curls greying at the temples, was pulled back into a ponytail. With reading glasses perched on his nose, he resembled a college professor rather than one of the most feared wrestlers in the world.

"Frankie?," I said quietly, trying not to startle him.

He looked up at me and smiled. "You're still awake? I thought you'd be asleep by now, angel."

Angel. That's what he always called me in that gentle way of his. The people who hated him said he was a bully and a monster, and that he deserved what happened to him. But they didn't know Frankie the way I did. My Frankie never said an unkind word to me. And he never raised his voice or his hand to me.

The Frankie I knew was quiet and reserved, not at all like the rowdy, drunken wrestlers you hear about getting into bar room brawls. Frankie hated the bar scene, seldom touched alcohol, and he always fretted whenever I drank too much. He used to tell me that I didn't have to drink excessively to prove that I was one of the boys and I didn't have to take my clothes off to get attention either. "You attract enough attention," he said in agitation, "and it's the wrong kind." Unfortunately, that was a lesson I would learn the hard way, but that's another story for another time. As it turned out, Frankie had been right about a lot of things. Frankie always told me I should be more careful with money, but I kept going through it faster than I could make it. Expensive clothes, Rolex watches, diamond rings, cars. You name it, I bought it. Frankie was always planning for the future while I lived for the moment.

When he died, he probably had the first dollar he ever made, but I digress.

Anyway I was standing there in the doorway of our bedroom while Frankie sat on the couch, papers littering the coffee table.

"Why aren't you asleep?" He asked.

"I can't sleep," I said. "Not without you. Please, Frankie, come to bed."

"I will, angel, after I make this phone call."

He got up off the couch and stretched his long limbs. He was wearing blue jeans, white button down shirt and this tan corduroy blazer with the patches on the elbows. My Frankie, the thinker and the planner. He never did care much for fashion. I remember marveling at the sheer size of him. Six foot seven of solid, powerfully built male. But he wasn't invincible. I knew that. And while watching him just then, a chill ran through me and I was very much afraid.

"Would you mind waiting for me in the bedroom? It's a business call. It could take a while."

"It's late, Frankie, can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"No, it can't. Now please go back to bed. I'll join you later. I promise."

So I returned to the bed. The empty bed where Frankie should have been had he not been so preoccupied. He had been very preoccupied during the weeks before _it _happened.

I laid there hugging myself, trying to will away the ominous feelings. I stiffened when his voice rose in anger at whoever it was on the other end of the line. There was much shouting and then finally, dead silence. When Frankie came into the room, he was shaking.

"Oh Frankie, what is it? What's wrong?" The usually unflappable Frank Goodish had worked himself up into a state. That phone call had bothered him, and that bothered me.

"Nothing angel, nothing." He yanked the rubber band from his hair and his wild mane spilled over those broad shoulders. He stripped out of his clothes and slid between the sheets, pulling me to him. I held him tight, not wanting to let go, hoping that my love would be enough to keep him there.

"I don't want you to go," I said and I too was shaking.

"Huh?"

"To Puerto Rico. Please don't go."

"You know I have to go. I have a show to do and besides, I gotta see what those bastards are up to. I'm telling you they're planning something."

"Carlos?" I questioned in disbelief. "No, not Carlos, he's my friend. He would never..."

"And I'm telling you, angel, that in this business, you learn real quick not to trust anyone. Carlos is into some bad things."

"He has a gambling problem, that's all. But he's harmless, a sweetheart. It's Jose I'm afraid of. I just wish you didn't have to deal with him. I don't like him."

"I know."

"Frankie..."

He pressed his lips to mine, whispering, "I don't want to think about Puerto Rico right now. I just want to concentrate on you.."

"Love me?"

"Always."

That night we made love. Deep, passionate and with a sense of urgency. Frankie had tears in his eyes. I had only seen him cry one other time and that was when David died. After our bout of torrid lovemaking, he collapsed on top me, physically and emotionally drained, sweat slicking his skin, his hair damp. I caressed his soft curls as his ragged breathing returned to normal. I listened to the bedside clock while the minutes ticked away before I finally settled into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, I served him breakfast in bed. By the afternoon, he was gone.

He was headed home to spend time with his wife and son before leaving for Puerto Rico.

I was alone again and as I locked up the apartment, the feeling of foreboding stayed with me.


	2. Chapter 2

I went back to the apartment on the day that it happened just because something told me to. A sick feeling I had. The first thing I noticed when I got there was that Frankie's glasses were right where he had left them, on the side table next to the telephone, his professor glasses I call them. I held onto those glasses, still have them to this day. I found an old flannel shirt that was one of his favorites. It used to be red, but it was faded pink from so much washing. I slipped out my clothes and into his shirt. It was big on me and stopped at mid thigh, but the fabric was warm and comforting against my skin. It still bore Frankie's scent and I imagined his arms enveloping me. His bearded face nuzzling my neck. And when I closed my eyes, I could hear his voice so clearly, almost as if he was right there in the room with me.

The knocking on the door jolted me back to reality. I rushed to open it, hoping against hope that it would be Frankie. Maybe he had decided against going to Puerto Rico after all. Maybe he had forgotten his key. It happens. But when I opened the door it wasn't Frankie standing there. It was Stan, his sandy colored hair disheveled and big sunglasses concealing his eyes. Stan's shoulders were slumped as if the very life had been drained from him.

"There's something I have to tell you."

I stepped aside so that he could enter. "It's Frankie, isn't it? Did something happen to him?" I knew the answer before I even asked the question.

He nodded solemnly. Stan Hansen had been Frankie's best friend and the only person who knew about my relationship with him. Stan didn't care much for me at all, thought that I was more trouble than I was worth, but I guess he felt he owed it to his friend to be the one to break the news to me. He didn't have all the details, so he told me all he could. That Jose had stabbed Frankie in the shower and that Frankie was dead. More details would emerge in the days to come and many stories told about Frankie's death. That he had been left there on that grimy shower floor to die like a dog. That he had laid there bleeding out for a long time before someone even bothered to call an ambulance. It had even been said that the doctors were told to stop operating on him.

I don't know how much, if any of it, is true. All I know is that the man I loved was dead and that Jose Gonzales never spent a day in jail.

Stan held me awkwardly while I wept. Touching me, it seemed, was the last thing he felt he should be doing. I clung to him anyway for support because I felt so weak at that moment that I thought I might fall down. He murmured something unintelligible as he guided me over to the couch. I sank down on it, placing my head in my hands. I was aware of him standing over me, shifting uncomfortably as if deciding what to do next.

"Can I call somebody for you?," he asked.

I glared up at him through my tears. "Nobody else knew about Frankie and me, so who am I supposed to call?"

"Well can I get you something to calm your nerves?"

I nodded towards the kitchen. Stan disappeared for a moment and came back with some whiskey. I took a swig from the bottle, sat it down on the floor. "I appreciate you coming by, Stan. Please lock the door on your way out."

"Alright," he said, "but before I go there is something we need to discuss."

"Frankie is gone. He's gone and he's not coming back. I don't see what you and I could possibly have to talk about."

"Listen to me" he said, taking off his sunglasses to reveal red, swollen eyes. "I understand that you're hurting - we all are - but now _you _need to understand this. Frank was like a brother to me. He was a good man, but he wasn't perfect. His wife and son - they don't know about you and I want to keep it that way. I don't want their memory of Frank to be tarnished by whatever he did with you."

"Stan..."

"Let me finish. I understand that you were a part of Frank's life. I'm sure you brought him a lot of pleasure. But you need to know your place. You cannot go to Frank's funeral. Your presence there would not be welcomed."

"Now you wait just a minute, Stan," I was shaking with rage, my fists clenched at my sides. "I've put up with your little slights long enough and I'll be damned if you're going to come here now and try to dictate the way things ought to be. I have just as much right to be there as anybody else."

"Don't be an idiot.," he spat, "There has already been talk amongst the boys and I've done my best to shoot down the rumors. But if you show up Frank's funeral, getting all hysterical, everyone will know. _Everyone._"

"I _loved _him."

"In private. You loved him in private and now you'll have to mourn him in private. Believe me," he insisted, "Frank would have wanted it that way. You know how paranoid he was about people finding out and you had to have known that he never planned on leaving his wife. What happens on the road stays on the road. It's the way we've always done things."

"I know all of this, Stan."

"Then for Christ's sake, Ric, stay away from that funeral. There's a woman grieving for her husband and a child missing his father. Don't you go making things worse."

* * *

So I stayed away while everyone else who loved Frankie got to honor him and say their final goodbyes. I spent that day inside our apartment reliving the memories. We must have made love on every available surface. In the shower, on the sofa, on the bed, on the floor, against the wall, on top of the dining room table. He even had me bent over the kitchen counter. Sex with Frankie had been raw and exciting. That big, strong body pressed against mine. His bushy beard, the wild tangles of his hair, his feral green eyes, his hungry mouth. Those huge hands touching me everywhere, possessing me.

But there had also been love. The way his eyes shone when he looked at me. The sweet way he called me angel. His smile. I continued to rent the apartment for months after Frankie was gone. I just couldn't bear to give it up. I would go there from time to time when I needed to feel close to him.

On the anniversary of his death, I decided to visit his grave.

* * *

The woman and child were facing the polished stone, speaking softly, their heads bowed. They placed a wreath upon the grave. I tried to sneak away quietly, hoping to go unnoticed, but they turned too quickly and I found myself face to face with mother and son.

"Ric!" the boy shrieked and threw his arms around me excitedly. He was tall for his age with curly dark hair and green eyes, the spitting image of his father. "Hi, Geoff," I ruffled the boy's hair. "Barbara," I acknowledged the striking brunette woman.

"It's been a long time, Ric," the woman said.

"Too long," I agreed, "I've been meaning to stop by for a visit but I got busy, being on the road all the time. You know how it is."

"Yes, I do. Don't forget _I_ was married to Frank. By the way, I got the lovely card and flowers you sent. It's a shame you couldn't make it to the funeral. Frank thought the world of you."

"I loved him too," I replied and it felt strange to say it out loud to his wife of all people. Still, she couldn't possibly have known the depth of my feelings for her husband.

"Oh I _know_ how you loved him, angel."

My mouth fell open and I could only stand there speechless.

"I always suspected something, but I was never quite sure. I found it odd that you weren't at the funeral and then weeks later, when I could bring myself to go through Frank's things, I found his journal. I never knew he kept one. But there it was right in front of me. It was a real eye opener. The way he described you ... I never knew he had such a way with words. How did he put it? Your halo of platinum hair, your shimmering crystal blue eyes, pink lips as soft as rose petals. A body built for..."

"Now is not the time or the place for this."

I shot a glance at the precocious child, wondering how much of this he was taking in. He was frowning in confusion, looking from his mother to me, then back at his mother, trying to piece together in his eight year old mind what was happening. Without another word, Barbara grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him toward her car.

(Coming soon: Final Chapter)


	3. Chapter 3

I returned to the apartment one last time to pack up the rest of my and Frankie's belongings. Most of the items I wanted to keep would go into storage. Everything else, I'd drop off at Goodwill. When I trudged up the back stairs entrance, Mr. Goldstein was waiting at the top just outside my door.

"This came for you," he said, handing me a package.

"Thanks," I told him, "I was just finishing up here, then I was going to return your keys. You're welcome to come inside if you like."

"Don't mind if I do." He smiled; a gray haired gentleman wearing a yarmulke. He was in his seventies with rheumy eyes and a pleasant demeanor. "I sure do miss that big fella," he said. "Nice man. Thought a lot about you."

"He talked about me?" He must have seen shock on my face; he chuckled.

"Are you kidding? He wouldn't shut up about you. I didn't mind though. Thought it was kinda nice. I think it made him feel good just being able to talk openly about his feelings. I kinda got the impression that he didn't do that much. That you two were seeing each other in secret, not that it's any of my business. I'm not one to pry. I have to say, though, you're better looking in person than you are on televison. The cameras don't do you justice."

"You know who I am?"

Another chuckle. "Do I? What kind of wrestling fan would I be if I didn't who Ric Flair is? I recognized your friend too. I thought I would piss myself, pardon the expression, when you walked through that door, but I never let on that I knew who you were and I never told anybody you were here either," he said proudly.

"I appreciate that, Mr. Goldstein."

"Artie. The name's Artie, son. You can call me that."

"Ok, Artie."

"You know, that fella of yours was something. Just as nice he could be. Didn't mind popping in to keep an old man company. Man, did I look forward to those visits. I don't get that many customers, so it gets kinda lonely. I'm thinking I should just sell the building. I'm not hard up for money, so I don't have to work, and I've gotten some decent offers for this place. But I've been kinda dragging my feet. I know I'm too old to be minding the store, but it gives me something to do. My wife - she's been dead for six years - the cancer got her. And my son lives a thousand miles away. Don't get to see him or the grandkids much."

He sighed wistfully. His face fell and the old guy looked another ten years older. I didn't know what to say to all of that, so I just gave him a hug. He held onto me for a bit, then he seemed to remember himself and he pulled away, embarrassed.

"There I go again, rambling on like some old fool. Don't mind me. I have plenty to do to occupy my time. Really."

He didn't sound too convincing and I couldn't help myself. I began to cry.

"Now don't you go getting all emotional on me," he said, wiping away my tears with his thin, dry hand. Then he did something totally unexpected. He started to laugh as if he suddenly thought of a very funny joke. "Man do I have something to tell my buddies at the next poker game. I made the N.W.A. world heavyweight champion cry."

Mr. Goldstein... Artie stayed with me until I had everything packed and loaded into the moving van. "I hate to see you go," he said, "but I know you have to. Next time you're in town, give me a call. You have my number."

I nodded.

He shook his head. "Damn shame what happened to your fella. Damn shame."

I gave Artie Goldstein back his keys, hugged him goodbye, and got behind the wheel of the moving van. I turned the key in the ignition, pulled out of the driveway, and as I took off down the street, I glanced in the rearview mirror. Mr. Goldstein had not moved. He just stood there outside his building, watching me drive away.

* * *

I recognized the return address on the package and quickly tore it open. It contained a leather bound journal. There was no note attached, and I never did question Barbara's motives for sending it to me. I was just thankful to have another piece of Frankie to call my own.

I took that journal on the road with me, and for many nights, I went back to my hotel room, curled up on the bed in that old flannel shirt and read, my eyes tearing, the words on the pages becoming blurred. I could envision him sitting somewhere, his hotel room perhaps or at an outdoor table at a cafe, lovingly putting pen to paper. He wrote about his marriage - it had been a good one in spite of everything. He really did love his wife.

He wrote about his business affairs, how he gained controlling interest in the Puerto Rican territory and how his partners wanted him out. They offered to buy, but Frankie refused to sell. Carlos, Frankie wrote, had tried to warn him that being stubborn would not be in his best interest.

I'm sure you can guess the rest. They decided - well Jose decided - to get rid of Frankie. Permanently. Carlos played no part in the actual murder, but he knew of Jose's intentions and did nothing. In my eyes, that made him just as guilty.

I read and re-read the parts about me and it was like experiencing everything all over again, only it was through Frankie's eyes. Barbara was right. Frankie did have a way with words.

We had a rocky start, Frankie and I did. We were two vastly different personalities with very little in common. But you know what they say. Opposites attract. The things he couldn't stand about me in the beginning were the very things that made him love me. As for me, I learned to look beneath his gruff exterior and see the man he was inside. I welcomed him into my heart and into my bed. I gave him all there was of me to give. Maybe in a different world, under different circumstances, we could have loved each other openly and freely. But that's just wishful thinking.

No use in thinking about the would haves, could haves, and should haves. Our love was what it was. A beautiful, private thing and I wouldn't trade my time with Frankie for anything in the world.

THE END


End file.
